


The Tamale Commission

by compo67



Series: The Chicago Verse [137]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accepting Dean Winchester, Chicago (City), Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Curtain Fic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Epiphanies, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Fan Art, Feel-good, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Holidays, Husbands, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Self-Acceptance, Slice of Life, Telekinesis, Telepathic Bond, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21964222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Dean spends time in his neighborhood, running errands and sparking unexpected epiphanies.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: The Chicago Verse [137]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/46578
Comments: 28
Kudos: 153





	The Tamale Commission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lochinvar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/gifts).



Pilsen is the quintessential Chicago neighborhood. 

Some terribly uninformed people may try and tell people that the heart of Chicago lies between Pilsen and South Lawndale in the neighborhood actually named Heart of Chicago. They’re wrong. 

Still others might say the city’s heart lies within the Loop. Those people will go on and on about the splendors of the Magnificent Mile, the historic architecture, and the all mighty glory of the Bean. 

Listen.

The Magnificent Mile is nothing but a bloated stretch of pot-hole ridden street lined with stores full of crap no one needs but everyone seems to want. Cartier. Armani. Louis Vuitton. Gucci. Burberry. Coach. That shit’s fine if there’s a need for some overpriced wallet or if someone’s dying to be treated like a peasant approaching the King for some crumbs. 

But it ain’t the heart of Chicago. Not by far. 

And no one needs to visit the Bean more than once. Ever. 

Ignore those luxury brand-minded, misguided individuals that point to the Loop as the end-all Chicago experience. Take the Blue Line from O’Hare. Unless traveling with an experienced Chicago resident, do not attempt to take a bus. Just don’t do it. If someone feels like experimenting with the bus system, let them be. Kiss them on the forehead and wave goodbye. 

From O’Hare to the Loop, the L takes about an hour, depending on how sober the L feels that day. Avoid any seat with mysterious stains--if possible. 

Get off at Clark/Lake, a massive station which only looks intimidating. There are plenty of signs to follow and one of the rare examples of accessibility in public spaces. Escalators and elevators help folks get from point A to point B. 

Follow signs for the Pink Line. 

The Pink Line serves as one of the most reliable and safest modes of transportation to reach the Chicago neighborhood of Pilsen. Depending on the destination, there are a few stops on the Pink Line to choose from, but Dean prefers the 18th Street stop. Murals and mosaics stretch over walls and staircases in celebration of Mexican culture and history. Splashes of vibrant pinks, teals, yellows, and reds throughout the station create an experience and a welcome unlike any other neighborhood. 

On 18th Street, head towards Ashland--one of the aortic streets in Chicago--and start from there. Walk. Uber. Rent a bike. Hail a cab. 

Dean walks with a bright red Macy’s bag in his left hand and his cane in the right hand. 

He made it from the Loop to 18th/Ashland without mauling, maiming, or murdering anyone. A veritable Christmas miracle and new personal record. Pleased with the results of his excursion, he decides to treat himself to lunch at the Frida Room. 

18th and Ashland offers plenty of food options. 

Parking meters line 18th like unforgiving soldiers capable of ratting out drivers on a moment’s notice. Sidewalk the color of crisp shortbread leads the way. Above, black iron fire escapes keep a faithful watch on pedestrians and cars below. Murals and mosaics outline shops and storefronts, providing color and distinction. 

With Christmas only two days away, there are more people out and about than usual on a Monday afternoon. 

His favorite taco place, Los Comales #3, sits a mere stone’s throw away from the Frida Room. On any other day, he’d pop into Los Comales to get his usual taco dinner and talk shop with Manny and Julieta. 

However, taking the L to Macy’s on State Street, finding and buying his desired item of purchase, muscling through the crowds of tourists and shoppers, listening to the endless sound of homophobic bell ringing on the corners, exposure to Bing Crosby _and_ December wind factor, then taking the L back to Pilsen merits celebration.

Inside Frida’s Room, he hunkers down at a table near the window and gives his order to Hilda without the need to look at the double-sided, laminated menu. 

He sets the Macy’s bag, his coat, scarf, and gloves on the chair opposite from him. With all those layers out of the way, he feels more like a person and less like an Arctic explorer. A few sips of cafe con leche later and he’s solid. 

Hot milk, dark coffee, the perfect amount of sugar, and a dollop of foam ease him into downtime mode. 

Hilda brings over his food--a giant plate of refried beans, tortilla chips, and two fried eggs smothered in salsa verde and queso fresco. To the side, she sets down one foil packet containing fresh, handmade corn tortillas and a bottle of red hot sauce.

“Huevos divorciados,” she announces. “Hey muchacho, donde estas tu compañero?”

“En casa,” Dean murmurs, picking up silverware. “Thank you, this is great.”

“Good.” She pats his shoulder. “Pues es raro no verte juntos.” 

He shrugs and smiles. “Pasa,” he answers. “And besides, he kicked me out.” 

“So you really needed huevos divorciados, eh?” 

“Hell no. Me and him?” Dean points at himself with his fork. “He’s stuck with me for life.” 

While Pilsen today is predominantly Mexican--despite ongoing issues with gentrification--it has long been a neighborhood for those seeking safety and stability. Bohemians, Lithuanians, Slovaks, Germans, Croats, Irish, Poles, Mexicans, and hipsters. 

No. Wait. Not that last one. 

It’s true that Pilsen has changed over the years. It has to evolve. Chicago as a whole changes--for better and for worse. The only things that don’t change in Chicago are the three P’s: potholes, politicians, and pizza. 

Gentrification caused some of the most cherished murals in Pilsen to disappear into the history books. Thalia Hall, once Bohemian headquarters that helped created the Czech Republic, is now a concert venue with mostly indie acts and clientele who couldn’t care less about the neighborhood. 

Still, despite what outsiders might think, Pilsen retains a sense of community to those who put the effort in and discover it. 

Hilda talks to Dean in between her four other tables. She spills the tea about what really happened between Mr. Vaca and Mr. Garcia last week at church. There’s some news about Vivi, who recently graduated from Loyola with a Master’s in gerontology and wants to revitalize the community for older adults. She’s got big plans for a new art center to take over the space left empty by Casa Atzlan. Oh, and Jorge finally got promoted to Assistant Manager at the Steak ‘n Egger on Cermak and Racine. 

Dean soaks up the updates and snippets of gossip like his tortillas soak up salsa on his plate. He finishes his cafe con leche and sighs, content to rest before heading back out. Hilda hands him a Walmart bag filled with tamales. He doesn’t dare protest or waste time with any self-deprecating crap. 

Tamales are gifts and no one says no to tamales. 

On the way to his next stop, Dean hears his phone ping.

 _Pick up almond milk on your way home, please_ , reads a text from Sam. 

Standing outside of Costa Azul Travel, in front of a door painted with a loteria style heart, Dean stops to text back. _I told you, I’m not drinking eggnog made out of almond milk._

Lovingly, Sam instantly replies back. _No one’s forcing you to give up your beloved eggnog, FFS._

Almond milk eggnog. The very thought of it makes Dean shudder. 

At the Subway just before crossing Loomis, Dean stops by and picks up two giant jars of mole from Mrs. Bautista. Her family’s been making the stuff since the 1950s. If there were absolutely no consequences to his actions, Dean would sit on the sidewalk right outside and lick both jars clean. 

Unfortunately, these are not his jars of mole.

“Tell Luchita that she’s been using the wrong corn husks,” Mrs. Bautista pleads, tugging on Dean’s sleeve. “You tell her, eh?” 

“And risk certain death?” Dean quips with a smile. “You’re asking me to put my life on the line there, Rosa.” 

In her mid-eighties, and quite capable of wielding kitchen utensils as torture devices if needed, she pats Dean on the back. “Thank you, thank you. You’re a good boy.”

He is neither good nor a boy, but Dean supposes that’s not the point.

Mrs. Bautista sends him off with a small rant about proper corn husks and a bag of tamales. 

Next door, Dean steps into the Panaderia del Refugio and skips the line. He heads towards the back, and finds the owner, Ricardo, in the office with his three sons--Diego, Ramon, and Alfonso. Dean squeezes into the office and shakes everyone’s offered hands, trying to balance his cane and the haul of goods. 

“Aha, aqui estamos,” Ricardo announces, quickly finding an order set aside. Eighty-four years old and a two-time cancer survivor, Ricardo moves with a pace that matches the busy panaderia. “Ey, you need a cart, Señor Wincha.” 

“Looks like I do,” Dean laughs and shrugs. “I’ll be okay though.” 

Ricardo nods at Diego and within thirty seconds, a collapsible crate cart appears. With care, Diego places Dean’s items into the cart. 

Meanwhile, Ricardo waves off the trouble and Dean’s money. “Deja, deja. Su esposo me ayudó a organizar mis libros de este año. Now. Can I ask you to deliver this to Doña Martinez?” He hands Dean a pink cake box. “Con cuidado, eh.”

Dean swears to Ricardo that he’ll take care of the delivery--no problem. This is his new career: neighborhood delivery boy. He should get a Vespa. And a hat. 

A minute later, Diego and Alfonso send Dean off with a churro, a cart of food, and tamales Diego’s wife sent with specifically for him and Sam. 

On the corner of Loomis and Blue Island, in front of the Lozano Library, Dean munches and sends communication way easier than messing around with his phone. 

_About to head into Pueblo. Last call for Sasquatches._

Energy rushes from Dean’s chest to his fingertips--a direct relationship between what his mind and body can do. Intangible elements like this exist in their physical world. And while there might not be a shit ton of scientific explanation, it’s very much _there_ , sewn into the fabric of his physiology. 

_We’re all good,_ Sam answers, using the same wave of energy. _Get home soon_. 

_I’m going. I’m going._

_I know you like to talk._

_Hey, people like talking to me. There’s a difference. I’m a goddamn delight._

_Are you literally standing outside telling me this? Get moving! Hey. How are you getting home?_

_With my pal Uber, since you kicked me out of the house this morning. Hilda thinks we’re getting divorced now--see what you did._

_Hilda thinks that about everyone who orders that plate. Besides, I’m not that lucky._

“Jerk!” Dean blurts out, then continues to mutter under his breath. “ _He’s_ not that lucky?! Like I’m not freezing my ass off running his errands when I could be on _my_ couch in _my_ house. Oh. Hi, Mrs. Slovacek.” 

Fortunately, the light changes--entirely on its own--and pedestrian traffic can safely cross the intersection. 

No external force causes it to switch. Nope. Perish the thought. 

He used to have only a hundred foot radius to communicate with Sam without using words. This shit would have been fucking helpful when they were hunting. Back when their lives were in danger--not while going grocery shopping. 

Funny how shit works like that. 

Christmas music on full blast greets him as he walks into La Casa del Pueblo. He makes it past the set of doors that don’t quite shut all the way and parks his crate next to the register. Behind the counter, six year old Linda looks up at Dean with an expression of awe. 

“Dean,” she says, in an attempt to whisper, “do you know Santa Claus?” 

Dean refrains from telling her the story of how he almost killed Santa Claus at the North Pole. Well, it wasn’t exactly Santa Claus, but the old guy was pretending to be Santa Claus. And it wasn’t the North Pole, more like a sad trailer behind an ever sadder amusement park. And Santa had a giant ass bong.

Not a story for a six year old. 

“Are you kidding?” Dean winks, hands on his hips. “Santa and I? We’re pals. Buddies. Amigos. Should I put in a good word for you?” 

Linda’s mom and the store’s manager, Carmen, takes the opportunity presented to her. She shares a knowing look with Dean, then fixes Linda’s pigtails. “I think Mr. Dean should only put in a good word for little girls who got good grades in school.” 

Leaning down, Dean asks, “Did you get good grades in school this year, Lin?” 

Linda worries for a split second, chewing on her bottom lip. “Uh… um… I…” 

“She got an A in Math,” Carmen relays. “And a B in Gym.” 

“Gym is overrated,” Dean quips with a laugh. “Lin, you did great! An A in Math! I’ll put in a good word with the big guy himself. Now.” He stands up and looks around the store. “Where can I find some almond milk and a carton of eggs?” 

“I’ll show you! I’ll show you!” 

Past the shelves of chips, a giant refrigerator for soda and juice, another fridge just for milk and yogurt, boxes of cookies, and the meat counter, Linda helps Dean finish the last of his errands. She opens up the egg carton to personally check that none are broken and helps him read the date on the almond milk. He carries her, piggy back style, back to the register.

His knee complains just a twinge as he sets her down, but who the fuck cares about that?

Lin presents him with a drawing on butcher block paper. She points to the tall, long-haired stick figure, then the slightly tall, short-haired stick figure and explains that this is Sam and this is Dean. They live in a house, right there, and there’s the sun, and there’s a snowman, and there’s her favorite neighborhood dog, Spot, the one that keeps gnawing on Dean’s carefully arranged Christmas lights over the bushes in front.

He leaves with the drawing tucked into his pocket, the almond milk and eggs in a bag, and another bag of tamales from Carmen with instructions not to eat them without Sam. 

No promises. 

Once again outside, Dean fiddles with his phone. He tries not to smile as he orders an Uber. If people see him smiling as a result of running errands, there could be trouble. Major trouble. He’s got a reputation to keep, goddammit. 

_Are you done?_

_Yes, jeez, I’m done. Just waiting for the freaking Uber. Get out of my head._

_You’re the one who started._

_Well, my hands were full._

_With. What._

_Crap._

_Uh huh. And I’m just sitting here, half naked, in bed, with nothing to do. Poor me._

“Sam?!” Dean covers his mouth. He sticks his phone to his face in an effort to pretend he’s not speaking to someone who isn’t there. _Half naked? Why not all naked?!_

_I *was* all naked. Then you took forever._

_Well, work on getting all naked again. Here’s my Uber._

_Don’t keep me waiting. It’s *so* hard… to wait._

Hello, good mood. 

Dean rides the wave of half naked Sam thoughts and tries to wipe the smarmy smile off his face before the driver thinks this is a regular state of being for him. It’s not. Ex-hunters don’t smile. They don’t use Uber, either. Nor do they wander through the streets of Pilsen in the daytime, talking to people who aren’t there. 

Somehow, Dean maneuvers the collapsible cart into the back seat of a pristine Totoya Prius. He can’t stand the car, but Baby doesn’t deserve to be out in this weather, so he sucks it up. 

“Hey,” Dean says, settling in. “Thanks for the ride.” 

His Uber driver looks like the Latino version of Al Bundy. Dean expects a live studio audience to laugh at any moment. He almost wants to crack a joke about when Peggy will show up, but decides to keep that to himself--for now. 

“Yeah, yeah,” the driver mutters. “I usually don’t take trips this short.” 

“Oh. Well. Glad you did.” 

“Yeah, sure.”

“Get good tips this time of year though?” 

The driver snorts and shakes his head. “You think people tip their Uber drivers?” 

Dean frowns and folds his arms over his chest. “Yeah. _I_ do. People can be real cheapskates, huh.” 

At the intersection of Ashland and 19th, the driver stops at the light. He turns slightly to glance at Dean in the backseat. “I wouldn’t have to work this job at all if I hadn’t got laid off from Unilever.” 

The Unilever factory, if Dean remembers correctly, is a way aways from Pilsen. Closer to Cicero. It’s not a terrible drive, unless there’s traffic, and there’s always traffic one way or another. Lupita’s niece’s cousins work the day shift there and he knows they don’t exactly enjoy it. But it pays decent, which is good enough to work any gig, as Dean knows all too well. For eighteen bucks an hour, they can pay well and the human body can go to hell. 

“Sorry, man,” Dean murmurs, sitting back. “That sucks. Did they lay off a bunch of people?” 

“Pft. Try a hundred.” 

“Bastards.” 

With an angry shrug, the driver waves Dean off. “It’s fine. I do this trip, then the airport.” 

“Midway or O’Hare.”

“Which you think pays better?”

“O’Hare.”

“Then I’ll get some more tourists on the way back before my other job at the Steak place.”

“Steak ‘n Egger?”

“Yeah.”

“I know the assistant manager there.”

“Have you ever worked for someone twenty years younger than you?”

Dean suppresses a laugh. He mutters, “Once or twice. It sucks ass.” 

“You got kids?”

“Hell no.”

“I got three little ones. No time to go shopping. But what’s that matter? No money to go shopping. How do you explain that Santa got laid off by an elf? You know my foreman is fresh out of college? And his daddy is the big boss and they decide that someone’s brother-in-law needs a job.” 

Bitterness hangs in dark clouds over the Prius. 

Dean thinks back to John at the wheel of Baby. There was one Christmas, Dean must have been Lin’s age, where there was no Santa, no reindeer, no cookies, no milk, and no freaking presents. Sam was a little too young to really notice the absence of Christmas in the backseat, but Dean knew. 

From a young age, he recognized that there were things other people got to do or have that he couldn’t.

And it sucked. 

Yet, here he is, in the back of an Uber, a crate full of food next to him and a party to throw for the neighborhood tonight.

“Hey.” Dean hands the driver a few twenties when the car stops. “Sam and I are having an open house tonight. In that house…” 

He points to said house. 

“...right now, is a seven foot tall elf who decorated the place like the North Pole. I personally baked three hundred cookies in the past forty-eight hours. I have three hams, two roasts, and a rack of ribs rotating between ovens up and down the block. Our neighbor there? She’s bringing over the biggest turkey in the tri-state area. Drove all the way down to Tremont to get it from a turkey farm. And her son Julio? He’s a living turkey. You stay long enough and you can see me punch him in his stupid face.” 

_You’re rambling_. 

_Quit listening_. 

“Anyway,” Dean says, popping open the door. “You and the family are welcome to drop by anytime you like. There’s a rumor that Santa’s gonna stop by.” 

He takes the crate and shuts the door, then pats the top of the car. 

A smile on his face, he walks towards Sam, who waits in the doorway. Sam’s wearing the red and black Christmas sweater Luis and Esperanza bought him, and a pair of worn jeans. 

The Prius turns around and waits a moment before driving off. Sam places an arm around Dean’s shoulders, then offers a wave. They watch the car drive down their street, back towards Ashland. 

Dean turns to Sam. 

Sam looks at Dean. 

“I love you,” Sam says, hazel eyes bright, hair a little messy. He pulls Dean inside and doesn’t give Dean much of a chance to reply.

Within seconds, their lips act as compositions--perfectly noted and arranged. The first kiss is a big band orchestra hell bent on blowing the roof off the joint. Dean slides his hands to frame Sam’s jaw line. Sam splays his hands over Dean’s back and hauls him close. In the entryway, door closed, their lips tread the fine line between pain and pleasure. 

Kisses from Sam--unparalleled. 

Pushed against the nearest wall by Sam--fucking poetic. 

The scent of garlic, bay leaves, onion, and chili powder occupies their home in a whirlwind of enticing aromas. Dean takes a deep breath, eyes closed, and kisses Sam in a fevered, boiling response. 

For Dean, touching Sam used to signify weakness. Something inside him would break, snap, and twist.

Now, touching Sam signifies strength and stamina. 

He wants more. Craves more. Needs more. Their hips connect. Sam grabs Dean by the collar of his coat and pulls him forward for a split second, then presses him back, flat against the wall. Layers of clothing fall off of Dean with the help of unseen hands. Coat. Scarf. Flannel. Fervent fingertips flit across the small of Dean’s back, then dip lower, past the waistband of his boxer briefs, sliding down… 

Sam gropes Dean like a pastry bag of frosting. 

Like a Christmas turkey.

Like a…

“Would you stop,” Sam quips in a huff. “I refuse to keep going if you’re gonna do that.”

Dean grins. “Move your hands forward and you’ll find one of your Christmas presents.”

Sam groans--in pure embarrassment--into Dean’s shoulder. “Stop. I beg you. Please.” 

“Check out my Christmas balls.” 

“No.”

“Kiss me under the mistletoe. Oh look, it’s tied to my belt.” 

“Nope.”

“Why’s the snowman smiling? Cause he can see the snowblower coming down the street.” 

“That’s it.” Sam takes his hands off Dean and walks away. “I’m done. Finito. Finished. Outta here.” 

It’s just as well, because they have a lot of work to do before people start arriving. Dean continues shouting dirty Christmas jokes as he makes his rounds through the kitchen. He inspects the numerous pots and pans on the stovetop and in the oven. His hashbrown casserole? Fucking beautiful. Roasted vegetables? Superb. The porchetta? Sinful. Mashed potatoes? Heavenly.

In his element, Dean jumps back into the dance. He washes his hands, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work. Sam works as both sous chef and host, chopping and washing, then handling the occasional phone call. 

Martiza calls to wish them a Merry Christmas. Juana calls from Puerto Rico to complain about how much she misses Sam. Kevin calls from an undisclosed location, which turns out to be Talo’s house two blocks over--he got distracted playing The Witcher with Talo’s kids and he’ll be over later. Do they happen to have an extra lock box? 

Phone calls over for the moment, Sam connects his phone to the bluetooth speaker on the window sill near the sink. He starts with classic Christmas songs. The greats show up: Sinatra, Crosby, Presley, and Carey. 

Spoons on the stove top stir themselves. Cupboards open on their own. Utensils on the cutting board bounce in sync with Brenda Lee. They might as well be running an enchanted castle operation.

Side by side, they cook and cook and cook. 

Pilsen has been the first stop for those seeking shelter since the 1870’s. 

From Ashland to Halsted, 16th to Archer, Pilsen provides its residents with a cohesive community unlike any other in Chicago. 

It is the only city anywhere in the world that holds the single best tamale recipe. 

Dean pats down a pile of corn husks he had soaking overnight. Sam wipes down the kitchen island. They work with the efficiency of seasons professionals. Masa. Lard. Salt. Wooden spoons. Sleeves rolled up. 

There’s a poetry to it. A feeling of belonging.

“Remember that Christmas at the bus stop,” Dean says, tying an apron around his waist. “The old man was late coming back from a hunt and I think we had PB&J.” 

Sam tears one husk into smaller strips and lays them in a pile to the side. “No, I think I blocked that one out of my memory.” 

Gasping, Dean commands Sam not to lie to the tamales. He then proceeds to tell the story of how he--at a mere eight years old--had been in charge of four year old Sammy. It was them against the world. A real nail biter. Would they make it? Would they perish? They sat on the bus stop bench for hours without so much as a taxi driving past. 

“How about the time I visited you at Stanford for Christmas?” Dean works the masa with his hands into the desired consistency. “Tell me you didn’t love that.”

“You acted like the world’s most protective brother/boyfriend,” Sam sighs, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I remember you dragged a tiny tree into my dorm room.” 

“Damn straight I did. And that poor tree,” Dean laughs, shoulders relaxed. “All it had for ornaments were some paper clips and a paper chain.”

They swap stories back and forth. Most old. Some new. 

Tamales need patience and steady hands. Luckily, Dean has both. 

He spreads masa about ⅛ thick onto the husk with his fingers, with a half inch border along the sides and a two inch border along the top and bottom. With a few done, he shows Sam how to fold, gently placing his own hands over Sam’s. They are sticky with masa, but Sam leans over and pecks Dean on the cheek and that’s that. 

Five tamales turn into fifty. 

Fifty turns into a hundred. 

A hundred turns into the grand total of one hundred twenty-five perfectly marvelous tamales. 

And then, the real work starts. 

Mrs. Martinez arrives with her sleeves already rolled up and an apron already on. She enters the kitchen on a mission and gives directions in such a way that would make Gordon Ramsey bow down to her superiority. Each tamale requires its appropriate time to steam. She shows Dean how to check to see that the masa is no longer tender. 

“Asi,” she instructs, her hands on his. “Asi.” 

People arrive in groups, little by little. 

The house fills up and people spill into the backyard. 

There’s Luis and Esperanza. Francisco and Javier. Lupita and Armando. Ricardo, Diego, Alfonso, and Ramon. Adrian. Matthew. Dottie and Lukas. Rayna and Katy. Catrina. Hasan. Señora Boyar. Mrs. Johnson. Henry. Mercedes. Maricela. Adelaide. Debi and Wayne. Don Juan. Carlos. Mario and Ashton. Alisha. Julia and Julio. Selene. Blanca. Angie. Kathy. Cathy. Kathryn. Ally. Marie. Delia. Jessica. Steve and Susan. Hilda. Carmen and Lin. Mrs. Bautista and Mr. Bautista. Eunice. Leli. Ahmed. Tiffany. Nosheen. Harley and Mik. Guadalupe. Natalie and Thelma. Junior, Jorge, and… 

Julio.

Just as Julio opens his mouth, his mother slaps him across the face and shoves him outside. 

People come and go as they please. Mr. Valz and Sam set up buffet tables in the dining room and within seconds, it’s covered in dishes, pots, pans, and catering trays. Monica works with a few ladies to distribute food and direct people into the living room. Sal and MaryJo keep a watchful eye on the house as traffic flows through. 

In the kitchen, everyone stops and gives Dean a hug, or a kiss on the cheek, or a pat on the back, or a squeeze to his shoulders, or a ruffle of his hair. Folks compliment his sweater, his home, his partner, and his cooking. 

He looks across the room and notices the way the light attaches to his Sam.

Wild, huh? 

_Wild_ , Sam concurs, offering a smile complete with dimples and the sweetest eyes Dean’s ever seen.

So this is Christmas in Pilsen. One year after Sam’s stroke. One year after Dean almost lost everything.

_Don’t. Not now. Take a break and sit next to me._

_Will you jingle my bells?_

_No._

_Ride me like a reindeer?_

_Absolutely not._

_Stuff my stocking?_

_Are you asking me to top?_

_...maybe I am._

_Why, Dean, I thought you’d never ask._

_Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal._

_That’s… that’s not really my gift, is it?_

Before Dean can answer or sit down, a hand tentatively pats Dean’s shoulder. 

He turns and meets eye to eye with his Uber driver, who introduces himself as Sergio Garcia--with his kids Ana, Patricia, and Susie, and his…

“Esposo,” Sergio mumbles, slightly hesitant. “Raul.” 

Dean shakes Raul’s hand and points over to Sam. “Glad you guys could make it. We’ll be busting piñatas out after food. Here. Take a plate and we’ll make our way over to my seven foot esposo over there.” 

Now, it’s a party.

Dean grabs a plate for himself and joins it.

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic was the result of a lot of inspiration, help, and teamwork from lots of folks! Allow me a moment to thank them:
> 
> Special thanks to @thefriendlypigeon who provided the spectacular line art of these two. It’s spot on exactly how I picture TCV Sam and Dean. Please be sure to leave them a comment and support our fandom artists! <3
> 
> Shout outs to my sister for coloring Sam and Dean as part of my Christmas present, and the ever-wonderful debivc78, my beta and BFF. And thank you to C for the help with Spanish and providing motivation. Thank you to Lochinvar for a beautiful gift of a fic, The Artist, which has truly made my year. (Go read, it's wonderful!)
> 
> And last but not least, thank you to YOU, dearest reader, for being here. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays! <3


End file.
